Retriever of Souls Read online

  She felt his arms tighten around her briefly and then he moved away with a look suspiciously like relief on his face. Bloody men. She forced a smile onto her own face. Her features felt like lead, but she managed it. As the door closed behind him, her phone rang. Work calling. Thank God.

  Barbara picked up the receiver and hoped her voice didn’t crack, but she doubted it would even have been noticed. Sharon’s sobs were loud enough to drown out any other noise.

  “Barbara, I... didn’t know who to... I can’t believe... it’s...”

  “Sharon, hang on, honey. Take a deep breath. What’s wrong? Has he hit you again?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I... I shouldn’t have called you. I didn’t know who... you are a doctor, though, aren’t you?”

  What on earth was going on? Barbara concentrated on calming the other woman down and eventually Sharon seemed to get her emotions under control.

  “Barbara, I need your help. Can you meet me tonight after Larry goes out?”

  ***

  Paolo stared at the ceiling of his office. At least the one at work wasn’t crisscrossed with cracks. He hadn’t had a spare moment to look for somewhere else to rent. Getting a home sorted out needed to become a priority.

  He thought back to his conversation with Barbara and felt relief, but also another emotion which nagged at the back of his mind. He recognised it as guilt – what else? His old friend guilt was always there in the background, a lasting product of his Catholic upbringing, but right now it was tap-dancing and pushing its way to the foreground. He’d treated Barbara badly, no two ways about that. Even if he hadn’t meant to, he’d still hurt her. All he could hope for now was that she’d find someone nice to... to what? Take her mind off what an arse he’d been?

  He looked down at the papers littering his desk and picked up the file on Azzopardi. His DNA wasn’t a match to that found on the dead women, but that didn’t necessarily put him in the clear. Azzopardi rarely did the dirty work himself, unless roughing up Maria counted as work. If he’d targeted the Albanian network then he’d have sent a few of his thugs round to work the girls over. It was always possible one of them had a taste for murder.

  On the other hand, the latest find didn’t quite fit the profile. The woman was much older than the other two. What the hell did that mean? If it was the same killer, why switch from an older woman to girls barely out of their teens? One thing at least was clear now – the murders had started much earlier than they’d first realised.

  His thoughts were interrupted by his mobile ringing. He picked it up and saw it was a call from his daughter. “Hi, Katy, what’s up? Shouldn’t you be in class?” “Nah, it’s break, so it’s okay. Dad, I’m sorry I wouldn’t speak to you when you rang, but...”

  “I know, kiddo, you were mad at me – and you were right to be. I’m just sorry I had to leave when I did.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure – you are still coming this Saturday, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “Come on, Katy, spit it out. I can hear there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Is it that you are, ‘ow you say, detecting, inspector?” she said in a terrible impersonation of Inspector Clouseau. Even though they were ancient films, Katy loved Peter Sellers in all of the Pink Panther releases. She always claimed that’s what Paolo did when he went to work, acted like the mad inspector.

  In spite of himself, Paolo laughed. “Yes, very good, Katy, but don’t think you’ll put me off. What’s up? You wouldn’t call from school unless there was a problem, so what is it?”

  Katy didn’t answer and Paolo remembered Matthew Roberts’ parting shot earlier that day.

  “Come on, Katy, spit it out. What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to calm Mum down.”

  “What? I’m more likely to do the exact opposite and that’s without even trying. Katy, unless you tell me what the hell’s going on I can’t help you. Now, for the last time, what’s wrong?”

  He heard Katy draw in her breath. It was an old trick of hers when she needed to say something that she knew Paolo wasn’t going to like. He had a vision of her looking down at the ground, knuckles white from holding the phone so tight. She’d count to three under her breath, not realising Paolo could hear her.

  “One, two, three,” she whispered. Then there was another long pause before she spoke again. “Father Gregory’s trying to have me expelled.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Thank God he had this cottage. He’d go insane if there wasn’t a safe place for him to let go of all inhibitions and be free to please God. Day after day he suffered, allowing the other one to take centre stage, but here he could give God his due. Whores spread their filth over the town and he couldn’t do a thing about it. At least in the safety of his special place he could punish those he caught and deliver their souls to God wiped clean of sin.

  The number of whores plying their trade grew daily; he couldn’t deal with them all. And now the Albanians were taking over many of the streets, introducing more corruptors. They were being sent out younger, too. Far too young to match His chosen ones. Was this God’s way of telling him he had failed?

  He shrugged his habit from his shoulders and bared his back. The whip’s spikes drove deep into his scarred flesh, slicing through his skin. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself from crying out. He deserved to burn for letting so many whores live. Flicking the lash over each shoulder in turn, he begged for release from his guilt.

  “Mea culpa, my fault, Lord. Mea culpa. Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. In my weakness, I have sinned. I have let you down, but I promise to make your beautiful world clean again.”

  Blood splattered on to the walls from the open wounds on his back, but still he continued to wield the whip. He could take the pain of any number of lashes, but not the pain of disappointing his God.

  Eventually he fell to the floor, too exhausted to move his arms or drag himself to the bed. He lay prostrate, tears falling unchecked.

  “Tomorrow, Lord, I swear. There will be one less in the cesspit tomorrow.”

  ***

  Barbara checked her watch yet again. After an hour sitting on the padded seat of the coffee bar’s most secluded alcove, her backside had almost gone numb. She shifted her position to try to get some feeling back and then had another look at the time. It was just after ten and she’d arranged to meet Sharon for coffee at nine. She’d already called twice, but both times Sharon’s phone had gone straight to voicemail. She’d give her ten more minutes and then go home. Barbara’s caffeine level was already sky-high. If she drank just one more cup she’d probably bounce all the way to her front door. She tried not to imagine why Sharon had failed to show up, but couldn’t stop the mental images of Larry using his fists as a battering ram.

  Interfering in a marriage wasn’t something Barbara believed anyone had the right to do, but if Sharon was being knocked about then she needed someone safe to speak to – and also someone to give her a way to protect herself. Barbara’s hand rested on the pamphlets she’d picked up at the women’s refuge advice centre. She knew from the voluntary work she did there that more women stayed in abusive relationships than left them. She just wished Sharon was a leaver and not a stayer.

  She signalled to the waitress to bring over the bill. As she rummaged in her bag for her purse, the phone resting on the table next to her empty cup sang out the opening bars of Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika. She smiled. No matter how many times she heard it, the South African anthem reminded her of home. One day she’d go back, but for now she was happy in her life in the UK, even if her love life sucked.

  She saw Sharon’s name on the display as she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, where are you? Are you on your way?”

  “Yes, sorry. I had to wait until Larry went out, but I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’ve asked Gareth our barman to handle things until I get back, but I won’t be able to stay long as Gareth likes
to get off as soon as possible after closing time. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t given up on me and gone home.”

  “I’m still here. I’ll order you some coffee,” Barbara said, waving at the waitress again.

  Five minutes later Sharon was facing Barbara in the alcove, but seemed unable to unload her problems. Barbara silently pushed the leaflets over to Sharon’s side of the table. Sharon flicked through them.

  “I’ve read all this stuff before, you know that,” she said. “Larry hasn’t hit me for months. I thought we’d found a way to live without him getting so angry all the time. It’s my fault-”

  “Crap!” Barbara cut Sharon short. “Sorry, Sharon, but it isn’t your fault. I’m not saying you’re perfect or don’t do things to make him mad, but if he hits you, that isn’t your fault, it’s his.”

  She could see by the look on Sharon’s face that she wasn’t getting through to her. Bloody Larry had her so downtrodden she believed every word he said.

  “I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. Let me help you. Please.”

  Sharon shook her head. “No one can help me. I need to stop being so stupid. Larry wouldn’t act as he does if I didn’t keep messing things up.”

  Barbara forced herself to wait before speaking. Pouring out how she felt about Larry wasn’t going to help Sharon.

  “You know I counsel battered women here? Well, that’s something I began when I still lived in Cape Town.

  “I’ve heard some horrific stories, seen some distressing sights, but you know what every single woman had in common?” She sighed, remembering some of the really bad injuries she’d seen. “They all said it was their fault. No matter how badly abused they were, they all said the same thing. That if they hadn’t upset their husbands or partners they wouldn’t have been burnt with cigarettes, had bones broken, been beaten almost to death and other crap like that. It doesn’t matter what any of them did, no one deserves to have that sort of treatment handed out. So, no more nonsense from you about poor Larry being driven to it. He chooses to hit you, Sharon, because he knows he can control you that way.”

  As tears streamed down Sharon’s face, Barbara reached out and put her hand on her friend’s.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s no good me lying to you. You need a friend, not someone who’ll tell you it’ll all get better if only you learn to be the perfect wife. That’s not going to happen.”

  Sharon pushed the leaflets back towards Barbara. “I know you want to help, but that’s not why I’m here. I need... I need to ask you something as a doctor, not a friend.” She inhaled deeply, her eyes flicking across the room, and then let the words out in a rush of air. “How can I tell if I’ve got syphilis?”

  Whatever Barbara had been expecting, that wasn’t it. She tried to frame an answer, but words just wouldn’t come.

  Sharon shrugged. “You look shocked. Sorry.”

  “What makes you think you might have syphilis, Sharon? Forgive me for asking, but have you slept with someone other than Larry?”

  “No, boot’s on the other foot. I’ve had... let’s just say unpleasant symptoms for a while. Last night, when Larry went out, I asked Gareth to watch the bar for me. I followed Larry. I thought if I knew who he’s sleeping with I could find out why he wanted to stray, you know? Why he needed someone else as well as me.”

  She stopped. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks, forming black rivulets as they mixed with her mascara.

  Barbara reached across squeezed her hand. “And did you find out who the other woman is?”

  Sharon laughed. A harsh bitter sound that seemed to come from deep within. “Oh yes, I found out more than I wanted to know. He’s not having an affair, Barbara. He’s going with prostitutes. It seems I’m a failure in bed, too. He has to pay to get what he wants.”

  ***

  Paolo looked at his mobile as it vibrated on the bedside table. Lydia’s name flashed on the caller display. God, he really didn’t want to deal with her right now. He’d stayed at the station until the desk sergeant, passing on his way to the canteen, had asked him if he had a home to go to. He looked around at his scruffy bedsit. Yeah, right, some home this was and he still hadn’t found time to even look in the classifieds. He took his notebook out and scribbled a message to himself to call an estate agent tomorrow.

  His damn phone stopped vibrating only to start again immediately. Lydia would be breathing fire whether he answered it or not. He’d deal with Katy’s rebellion tomorrow. How serious could it be, for Christ’s sake? It was only a classroom argument between Father Gregory and Katy and, from what he could make out, it sounded like Katy had probably misunderstood Father Gregory anyway. No way could he have her expelled. It was more likely that he’d threatened her with expulsion just to frighten her into toeing the line a bit.

  He switched his phone off and closed his eyes. God, he needed to rest. When was the last time he slept properly? His head felt light. It was so nice just to relax for a few minutes.

  He woke up to a furious hammering on his door and wondered where the hell he was. Barely awake, he staggered to the door and opened it. Lydia pushed her way in.

  “This place is a tip. Don’t you ever tidy up?”

  Paolo peered at his watch. “Yep, good idea. Tell you what, I’ll do that tomorrow, but right now I’d rather know what the hell you mean by waking me up. It’s gone eleven!”

  “Since when do you go to bed this early? Besides, you’re still dressed, so it’s as well I woke you.”

  “And now that you have, why are you here? Sorry, sit down. I’ll just move that stuff,” he said, pointing to a battered armchair hiding under a heap of papers and clothes. “If it’s about Katy’s row with Father Gregory, don’t worry about it. I promised Katy I’d go and smooth things over tomorrow.”

  Lydia crossed to the armchair, but stopped at Paolo’s words. She looked at him, eyebrows almost disappearing into her hairline.

  “You think you can smooth this over? You must be joking.”

  “No, why would I joke about that? I know Katy was in the wrong for yelling at Father Gregory in front of the class, but I bet you’ve already dished out masses of punishment. Where is she, by the way?”

  “She’s at home. In her room in disgrace. I called my sister and she came over to stay with Katy until I get back. If you’d answered your phone I wouldn’t have needed to make the trip, would I?”

  Paolo sat down at the tiny kitchen table’s only chair and faced Lydia. “Okay, I should have answered the phone, but I was tired, Lydia, and needed some sleep. We could have dealt with this tomorrow.”

  “No, we have to deal with it now.” She stopped speaking as a look of understanding swept across her face. “Katy didn’t tell you, did she?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “What she actually said to Father Gregory. No way would you be so calm about it if she’d told you the truth. I had to force it out of her, but I assumed she’d at least been honest with you.”

  “Lydia, just get to the point, will you. Stop being so bloody dramatic.”

  She laughed. “You think I’m being dramatic? Katy has me beat hands down in the drama stakes. She said, in front of her entire class no less, that Father Gregory was a sexual pervert and probably the person the newspapers are featuring in their lurid headlines. In short, dear Paolo, your daughter accused a priest of being the murderer of those dead prostitutes.” She smiled, but there was no humour in it. “Still think you can smooth it all over tomorrow?”

  ***

  Paolo sat at his desk, head pounding from yet another night with not enough sleep. After Lydia had left the night before he’d found it impossible to relax enough to drop off again. What the hell was Katy up to? Fair enough if she wanted to question God and religion, but to accuse Father Gregory of being a sexual pervert and a killer? That was just asking to be expelled. He sighed and checked his watch – still too early to phone the school and try to fix things. Lydia was keeping Katy home from school today. They both thought P
aolo stood more chance of sorting out the mess if Katy wasn’t there to make it worse.

  As for Katy herself, she was going to find out that even though Paolo no longer lived at home, he and Lydia still stood together as parents where her misbehaviour was concerned. He smiled grimly, Katy might wish he and Lydia didn’t stand as one by the end of the weekend. Thank God it was Friday and he had the weekend to find out what was really bugging his daughter.

  A light rap on the door broke his reverie. He yelled for whoever it was to come in, pleased to have something else to think about. The door opened and CC stuck her head round.

  “We might have caught a bit of a break, sir. I’ve just heard from Liverpool. They have an unsolved up there with a similar feel to our killer’s. All details are the same except for one.”

  “Okay, CC, I can see by your face that the one is a biggie, so come on, what’s the missing detail?”

  “No DNA.”

  “Fuck, that’s a major missing detail. What makes you think it’s our man?”

  “It’s not that I think it definitely is, but I do think there’s a strong chance, sir. The body was wrapped in black plastic and found dumped in with garbage, just like ours. She’d been beaten from the waist up and died as a result of strangulation. As I say, sir, all the details fit except for that one.”

  “And this happened in Liverpool?”

  CC nodded.

  “When?”

  “Ten months ago, sir. That’s earlier than our three down here by a long way. I’m wondering if he started up there and worked his way down.”

  Ten months! If it was the same man, that meant the bastard was much further along on his killing spree than they’d realised – and there was always the chance that he’d started even before the Liverpool unsolved.

  “Have they sent all the facts down?”

  “Yes, sir, but there isn’t much. The victim was a prostitute, so no surprise there, in her fifties, so similar in age to the last one found down here. But our older vic was killed before the younger two, so that makes sense in a way. Clearly, unless there are bodies we don’t know about, he switched from older women to younger ones. Why do you think he did that, sir? Or is it just a male thing. You know, time to move on to the younger model?”